to other islands with names like Islamorada and Long Key and Bahia Honda.
The cooler morning when she had set off gave way to the heat of noon, and Joanna was glad that the car had air-conditioning. Just now, she would have been sweating, even in the cotton vest and shorts which were her only attire, and although there was usually a breeze to offset the higher temperatures, sitting on a sticky car seat was not the most comfortable way to travel.
It was after one o’clock when she reached Mango Key. The main highway intersected the island at the newer commercial quarter, but having read her guide books well, Joanna took the road that led to the older part of town. Her route took her along streets with a distinctly Spanish air, grilled balconies overhung with vines and bougainvillea, and pastel-tinted walls guarding inner courtyards where fountains played. At this time of the afternoon the streets were quiet, only an occasional horse-drawn vehicle meandering its way between rose-covered pergolas, carrying energetic tourists on a journey round the island. Joanna was able to stop and read the road signs without being harassed by other irate motorists, and she found the Hotel Conchas without too much difficulty.
She parked the car on the forecourt, and leaving her luggage in the trunk, walked the few yards between the parking area and the cool, air-conditioned freshness of the hotel. But even in those few yards she could feel the heat of the sun on her bare shoulders, and was glad her hair was thick enough to protect her head. She was glad, too, she had caught it up in a knot on top of her head. Already the back of her neck felt sticky, and its weight about her shoulders would have been unbearable.
The receptionist was Cuban, a dark-eyed, dark-skinned young man who eyed Joanna’s long slim bare legs with appreciation as she crossed the marble-tiled foyer. Not for the first time since coming to Florida, she was made aware of her own femininity, and she adjusted her spectacles firmly, as if disclaiming any desire to draw attention to herself.
‘I—good afternoon,’ she murmured in a low voice, and then, clearing her throat, went on: ‘My name’s Holland, Joanna Holland. I phoned you from the hotel in Miami.’
‘Ah yes, Miss Holland.’ The young man’s eyes assessed her as he consulted his ledger. ‘You are a visitor from England, am I right? You are booked with us for two weeks.’
‘Provisionally, yes,’ agreed Joanna, moistening her upper lip and concentrating her attention on the entry in the book open on the desk. ‘But I may stay longer. Will that be all right? I mean, you’re not likely to get booked up or anything?’
‘We can always hope,’ remarked the young man humorously. ‘But take it easy. I’m sure we can always accommodate you, Miss Holland.’
Joanna sighed. ‘Er—my suitcases are out in my car. I just parked on the forecourt. Could someone …?’
A bell-boy was summoned and while Joanna filled in the necessary registration form, her luggage was brought in from the car and placed on a trolley, ready for direction.
‘Room 447,’ the receptionist advised at last, handing the keys to the bell-boy, and feeling only slightly less selfconscious, Joanna followed the man into the lift for the trip up to the third floor. She had already learned that Americans regarded the ground floor as the first floor, and consequently the fourth floor was in actual fact only three floors above the ground.
Her room overlooked the swimming pool at the back of the hotel. It was a large comfortable apartment, comprising a twin-bedded room with a balcony and an adjoining bathroom, and after the bell-boy had left her, Joanna walked out into the sunshine. Below her balcony, the water in the pool was alive with sunspots, while beyond the fringe of palms that edged the gardens, a narrow beach was all that separated the hotel from the Gulf of Mexico. It was exotic and it was colourful, and she rested her elbows on the rail and surveyed the activity below with a feeling of satisfation. She was here. She was actually here in Mango Key. All she had to do now was find Matthew Wilder.
All!
Screwing up her eyes against the glare, she acknowledged that it was no small task that Evan had set her. She had not been lying when she said that Uncle Matt might not recognise her. There was little resemblance now between the eight-year-old schoolgirl he had brought beads for and the nineteen-year-old young woman she had become. Indeed, she didn’t remember him all that well. It was only the fact that her father had kept a photograph of Matthew Wilder in his study that had convinced her she might be able to recognise him. He couldn’t have changed that much in eleven years. Her father hadn’t. And after all, Uncle Matt was his contemporary, not hers.
On impulse, she went back into the room behind her and opened up her suitcase. She had brought the photograph with her, for reassurance, and now she drew it out and examined it once again. Marcia had made no bones about her taking any of the photographs out of her father’s study. She had not wanted them, and after her father died, Joanna had gathered all the old snaps together and stuffed them into a holdall ready to sort through later. She was glad she had. The night she left Ashworth Terrace, she had been in no state to bother about old photographs, but because they had been among her possessions they had been sent to Mrs Morris’s sister’s house along with everything else she owned.
Now, she studied the old black and white image with faintly troubled eyes. The bearded features were familiar, and yet unfamiliar. She hardly remembered the man who had come back to England from Africa, bringing with him bracelets and necklaces carved from bone and shells, weird-looking dolls, and a pair of drums, wood-framed and covered with skin. It was all so long ago, and she felt the old sense of anxiety that he would immediately suspect why she was here.
The hollow feeling inside her resolved itself into hunger, and shedding the shorts for a more modest cotton wrap-around skirt, Joanna left her room and went down to the coffee shop. She had still to decide how she was going to arrange an accidental meeting with Matthew Wilder, and over a hamburger and french fries she considered the alternatives.
Evan had given her the address, along with the information that his house was near the beach. How Evan knew this, Joanna had no idea, but as the island was only three miles wide at its broadest point, it was not unreasonable to suppose that his information was correct. ‘Palmetto Drive,’ she mused, examining the slip of paper in front of her. It sounded nice, but names, like appearances, could be deceptive.
Still, at least she knew where to find him, always assuming he was still there. All she knew for certain was that he had been there six months ago or presumably her father would have changed the address in his diary.
Swallowing a mouthful of the raspberry milk shake she had ordered to accompany her hamburger, Joanna wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. There still remained the question of how she was going to introduce herself to a man who in all probability had even forgotten her name. How could she even get herself noticed when to all intents and purposes she was no different from any one of a thousand other girls she had seen thronging the beaches from here to Miami?
She was sitting there, lost in thought, when a light hand touched her shoulder. She glanced round at once, her long green eyes wide behind the curved lenses, and found the handsome young man from the reception desk regarding her with undisguised admiration.
‘Miss Holland,’ he said, as she met his gaze coolly, ‘I thought you might be wondering about your car keys.’ He smiled. ‘Your car’s been parked in the hotel garage. When you want it, all you have to do is call the desk and it’ll be brought to reception for you.’
‘Well, thank you.’ Joanna couldn’t be impolite. ‘I’ll remember that.’
‘Good.’ The young man hesitated. ‘I hope your room is comfortable.’
‘Oh,
